My grandfather made me the weird girl at summer camp.
I was 10, and it was bible camp. Each day before lunch, we all beat down the path to the chapel for "Together Time" and prayers. A counselor played her guitar, a pastor told a story, and then, thank God already, we could eat.
But not quite. Because in order to be excused to the lunch hall, one camper from each row had the awkward task of either singing a song or reciting a poem. Only then were we free.
"Row, Row, Row Your Boat" was a camper favorite. So were variations of "Roses are Red." One kid sang the Alka Seltzer jingle—plop, plop, fizz, fizz—to the guffaws of campers and counselors alike.
Somewhere around the middle of camp week, I got the guts to raise my hand. And then I stood up and said this:
Jenny kiss’d me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in!
Say I’m weary, say I’m sad,
Say that health and wealth have miss’d me
Say I’m growing old, but add,
Jenny kiss’d me
The room was silent. But not oh-my-good-lord-in-heaven-that-was-so-unthinkably-amazing-that-I've-been-struck-dumb silent. No, it was so-OK-then-that-was-awkward-what-do-we-say-now silent.
My counselors exchanged glances. My fellow campers scrunched their noses.
Ten or so seconds later, which is a LONG TIME WHEN 120 SETS OF EYES ARE STARING AT YOU, PEOPLE, the pastor finally said, "OK. Your row can go."
Only one person ever spoke to me about it. It was that one loud, bossy girl that's at every summer camp.
"That wasn't a poem," she said, jumping in the lunch line ahead of me. "It didn't rhyme."
Like I said, I blame my grandpa.
When I was nine, he gave me a small, black, leather book titled, "Treasury of Best Loved Poems." Inside, next to some of his favorite verses, he'd written, in his familiar penciled script, "25 cents" or "50 cents" or, rarely, deliciously, "$1".
Once I memorized the poem, and recited it for him flawlessly, he paid me.
Among them was Coleridge's "Kubla Kahn" ("In Xanadu did Kubla Kahn / a stately pleasure-dome decree...").
Whittier's "Barbara Frietchie" ("'Shoot if you must this old gray head / But spare our country's flag,' she said.")
And my favorite, Leigh Hunt's "Jenny Kiss'd Me." My name was Jenny. I adored my grandfather. You don't need to be a psychologist to understand why this poem was my first conquest.
Reciting it earned me 50 cents.
And the reputation as the camp weirdo.
And a lifelong love of poetry and literature and words.
I blame my grandfather.
I was 10, and it was bible camp. Each day before lunch, we all beat down the path to the chapel for "Together Time" and prayers. A counselor played her guitar, a pastor told a story, and then, thank God already, we could eat.
But not quite. Because in order to be excused to the lunch hall, one camper from each row had the awkward task of either singing a song or reciting a poem. Only then were we free.
"Row, Row, Row Your Boat" was a camper favorite. So were variations of "Roses are Red." One kid sang the Alka Seltzer jingle—plop, plop, fizz, fizz—to the guffaws of campers and counselors alike.
Somewhere around the middle of camp week, I got the guts to raise my hand. And then I stood up and said this:
Jenny kiss’d me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in!
Say I’m weary, say I’m sad,
Say that health and wealth have miss’d me
Say I’m growing old, but add,
Jenny kiss’d me
The room was silent. But not oh-my-good-lord-in-heaven-that-was-so-unthinkably-amazing-that-I've-been-struck-dumb silent. No, it was so-OK-then-that-was-awkward-what-do-we-say-now silent.
My counselors exchanged glances. My fellow campers scrunched their noses.
Ten or so seconds later, which is a LONG TIME WHEN 120 SETS OF EYES ARE STARING AT YOU, PEOPLE, the pastor finally said, "OK. Your row can go."
Only one person ever spoke to me about it. It was that one loud, bossy girl that's at every summer camp.
"That wasn't a poem," she said, jumping in the lunch line ahead of me. "It didn't rhyme."
Like I said, I blame my grandpa.
When I was nine, he gave me a small, black, leather book titled, "Treasury of Best Loved Poems." Inside, next to some of his favorite verses, he'd written, in his familiar penciled script, "25 cents" or "50 cents" or, rarely, deliciously, "$1".
Once I memorized the poem, and recited it for him flawlessly, he paid me.
Among them was Coleridge's "Kubla Kahn" ("In Xanadu did Kubla Kahn / a stately pleasure-dome decree...").
Whittier's "Barbara Frietchie" ("'Shoot if you must this old gray head / But spare our country's flag,' she said.")
And my favorite, Leigh Hunt's "Jenny Kiss'd Me." My name was Jenny. I adored my grandfather. You don't need to be a psychologist to understand why this poem was my first conquest.
Reciting it earned me 50 cents.
And the reputation as the camp weirdo.
And a lifelong love of poetry and literature and words.
I blame my grandfather.